


From the Horse's Mouth

by wilddragonflying



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, First Kiss, Geralt loves roach, Getting Together, M/M, Roach Loves Geralt, Roach gets a voice, but he's an idiot, idk what unicorns are like in canon but
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:15:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25059847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wilddragonflying/pseuds/wilddragonflying
Summary: AKA the one where Roach lays down some hard truths
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 49
Kudos: 510





	From the Horse's Mouth

Geralt hates witches, he wants this to be known.

Usually, they’re not _that_ awful, more along the lines of cryptic annoyances than anything harmful, but… When they got an idea in their heads, nothing could convince them they were wrong. 

In this case, Geralt really does _not_ need to ‘give his conscience a voice,’ thank you very much. It already speaks too fucking loud, hardly lets him sleep. 

His medallion had vibrated when she’d said those words, but when Geralt hadn’t felt any magic try to touch him, when it hadn’t burned and when she’d continued to look at him with only a raised eyebrow, he’d let the matter drop.

Looking back on it, he probably should’ve been a bit more suspicious, but - as he said. He hardly sleeps, has barely slept since the disastrous dragon hunt. 

So he thinks he can be forgiven for just staring blankly at Roach when he _swears_ he just heard her say, “Don’t camp here, I don’t like the way it smells.”

Geralt also thinks he can be forgiven for yelling - _not_ screaming, thank you inner-Jaskier - when she answers his befuddled, “What?” with “I know you’re sleep-deprived, but you can smell the ghouls nearby, right?”

He throws himself backwards, dropping her reins like they’ve burned him, and scrambles for his sword. Roach snorts at him, and tosses her head, and when she speaks, he notices that her mouth doesn’t really move, but - but the sound _clearly_ originates from her. “Put that stupid stick away, you know exactly what’s happening here.”

“ _What?_ ” he repeats, in a slightly higher pitch.

“That witch, the one you growled at in the last village? She told you your conscience needed a voice.” Roach tosses her head again, in a movement that looks far too much like a human’s eyeroll to be comfortable. “Since you fucked things up with the bard, I’m the next best thing.”

“What.”

Roach snorts at him, stepping closer and shoving her head into his chest. “Let’s find a camp that _doesn’t_ stink like ghoul,” she - she _orders,_ what the _hell,_ “and we can talk.”

Too dumbstruck to do anything else, Geralt puts his sword away, and follows Roach.

* * *

So. It turns out that he managed to find the _one_ horse for sale who’s half-unicorn. “Mother got adventurous and escaped one time,” Roach says matter-of-factly when Geralt asks how the fuck she’s so intelligent. “She was smart, then she found a unicorn while she was in heat. When she was caught, I came out a while later. That was… A couple years before you bought me. It’s also why I’ve lived so long, normal horses drop dead of old age around twenty-five.”

Right, that - made sense. Geralt supposes he’d always known that having the same horse for close to thirty years now was odd, especially because her previous owner told him she was already five years old when he got her from a farmer who couldn’t really tame her, and couldn’t afford to pay Geralt with anything else but the horse he was having no luck selling. “So,” he says slowly, still trying to wrap his head around the fact that his _horse_ is _talking,_ “you’re… semi-immortal, and very smart.”

“Smarter than you, since you chased off the one human who could stand you for more than five minutes.”

Geralt winces. “And now you’re - what, spelled to talk? How long is it going to last?”

Roach snorts, tossing her head in a motion that’s the equine equivalent of a shrug. “Probably the rest of my life. Unicorns can talk, I just never could because it wasn’t something I was born with. But now…”

Geralt half-hopes he’s fallen and hit his head on a particularly sharp rock, because the thought of dealing with a fully-intelligent _Roach,_ who apparently has a lot to say, for the rest of their lives, borders on the stuff of nightmares. Roach gives him a look which clearly conveys she knows exactly what he was just thinking. “So. My conscience?”

“Clearly in need of fixing,” Roach says smartly. “Since you think tying yourself to sorceresses and not very nice bards who try to bribe me with apples and you with baths is a good idea.”

Geralt grimaces. “Are you - “

“Going to bring him up every chance I get until you quit acting like a heat-struck stallion and apologize? Yes.”

“Fuck.”

* * *

“No.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow. “‘No’?” he echoes.

“No,” Roach says again, more firmly this time. “You are _not_ hanging that griffin’s head off of my ass.”

“I need to get it back to town,” Geralt reasons. 

“Then you can fucking well hang it off your own ass, have it throw off your balance and bounce all its pointy bits into your legs.” Roach ends this statement with a snort, and Geralt gives the griffin’s head another considering look. He’d never really thought about it from that angle.

“What if… I tied it to the back of the saddle, wrapped it in my rain cloak?” he offers. “So it doesn’t bleed all over you.”

Roach eyes him and the decapitated head - which is, indeed, still oozing thick, dark blood onto the grass beneath it - before she snorts again, shakes her mane out. “Fine. But you’re giving me a bath if any of that shit touches me.”

Geralt bites back a smile, but reaches for the pack nonetheless.

* * *

“Oh _hell_ yes, pull over here.”

“Roach, it’s not even midafternoon - “ Geralt tries, exasperated, but the hackamore that Roach had argued him into using in place of a bridle with a bit isn’t exactly helpful in convincing the mare to keep moving, and he’s a lot more reluctant to do more than nudge with his heels lately. “We need to reach the next town.”

“There’s a fucking spring, and this field is _covered_ in motherfucking clover, _we’re stopping here,_ ” Roach says firmly, marching right into said field and plunging her face into the grass that is, as mentioned, covered in clover.

“You’re going to be so slobbery,” Geralt sighs, but he accepts his fate, and dismounts, untacking Roach and carrying everything towards the stream that he can hear cutting through one corner of the meadow. 

Roach doesn’t bother saying anything, too busy happily mowing down every bit of clover in her path.

* * *

“This place stinks worse than a breeding shed,” Roach mutters, eyeing the whorehouse that Geralt has stopped in front of distrustfully. Geralt barely manages to keep from reacting, turning to fuss with her tack so he doesn’t look like a _complete_ lunatic talking to his horse.

“It has been _months,_ ” he hisses, part of him wondering how his life came to this, talking to his _horse_ about the last time he got laid. “And I can’t take care of myself with you _right there._ ”

Roach snorts, flicking her tail so that the end of it catches Geralt on the cheek. “It’s ridiculous. Paying to breed. People just shine us up and stick us in a field around breeding season and hope we get the hint. Then again, the bard shined himself up nice for you, and _you_ never did get the hint.”

Geralt grits his teeth. It’s been over a year since the dragon hunt, over six months since that witch unlocked Roach’s heretofore suppressed ability to talk, and she _still_ insists on bringing Jaskier up at least once a week, usually more. “Well, _the bard_ isn’t here, and probably won’t be again, so a whore will have to do,” he bites out.

Roach snorts, stomping a foot. “Yeah, not here because _you_ acted like a fucking toddler,” she huffs, turning her head and biting at his hip with pinned ears without making contact. “Stop being a little bitch and go apologize, already.”

“You’re taking this ‘be Geralt’s conscience’ thing too seriously,” he grumbles, loosening the girth before he reaches for the reins, tugging them over Roach’s head to lead her to the attached stable. 

“Wouldn’t have to if you’d _fucking apologize,_ ” Roach says smartly, right as the stableboy appears, so that Geralt can’t say anything without looking like he’s lost his mind.

The flick of her ear and gleam in her eye when he glares at her tells Geralt that she timed that on purpose.

* * *

“If - you don’t - give me the _best -_ brushing tonight… And _all_ of the carrots in that pack,” Roach huffs, her sides heaving under Geralt as they finally slow, the outraged shrieks of the nekker horde they’d stumbled on finally fading into the distance, “I am going to fucking _eat_ every single pair of your - your goddamn _motherfucking_ leather pants. Fight the next monster half-naked, chap your ass with your fucking armor, see what I care.”

Geralt murmurs something under his breath, hand smoothing down Roach’s neck as he strains his hearing, trying to make sure they haven’t run right from the frying pan and into the fire. Only when he’s sure that the only wildlife around is _normal_ wildlife, does he speak. “I know, I know. I - I will. Let’s find a creek, a place to camp.” He dismounts, patting Roach’s neck when she blows a harsh breath and pushes her face into his chest in that way he’s learned means ‘hug me right now.’ He obliges, tucking her face in against his chest, pressing his lips to her forelock while he reaches up and rubs just so at her favorite spot behind her ears.

They stay like that for a long moment before Roach finally sighs. “Should move before my fucking legs lock up,” she mumbles, shaking her head just enough to avoid banging into his chin. “Can’t stop cold after running like that.”

“Yeah,” Geralt grunts, pulling away with one last ear rub. “Let’s head out.”

It takes them roughly an hour to find a suitable place, and as soon as Geralt has Roach untacked, she heads for the large creek - which is almost big enough to qualify as ‘small river’ - and splashes until she’s thoroughly soaked. She looks like she’s even considering rolling in the creek when Geralt clears his throat, catching her attention. He holds up a carrot, the bag with the others at his feet, and a brush in his other hand. Roach picks her way out of the creek and over to him - and practically inhales the first carrot as he moves closer, running the brush in large circles over her entire body.

“That feels fucking amazing,” she mumbles, sounding like she’s talking around a mouthful of carrot despite the fact that her mouth never moves when she talks. “Harder.”

Geralt obliges, increasing the pressure and smiling when Roach leans into the brush. He uses the time to check her over, make sure that there’s nothing wrong with her that they’d missed before, and when, nearly an hour and the entirety of the bag of carrots later, he’s almost finished, he finally speaks. “Thank you,” he says quietly. “I never - said it before. But. Thank you.”

Roach snorts, turning her head to give him a fond look, tail flicking some stray water into his face. “You’re welcome.”

* * *

“Geralt,” Eskel says, tone entirely too calm, even for him. “Why did Roach call Sable a ‘prissy-ass purebred with chaff for brains’? And, more importantly, _how?_ ”

When Lambert and Vesemir turn to look at him with incredulous and unimpressed looks, respectively, Geralt sighs.

* * *

“If we don’t stop in this town, I am going to scream and let them stone you,” Roach informs Geralt, sounding as weary as he feels. They’ve been traveling for close to a month now, every village either not having any work or simply chasing Geralt from them, and Geralt suddenly _misses_ Jaskier, fiercely. That’s how it happens, has ever since the mountain eighteen months ago; he’ll be going about his day, and _something_ will make him think of Jaskier, and then he can’t breathe for missing the bard. Roach doesn’t help matters; she still insists that he needs to find Jaskier and apologize, but - 

How can he, after he finally succeeding in hurting Jaskier so thoroughly that he left Geralt? 

Still, this town is large enough that surely _someone_ will be willing to take their coin, even if it’s just to rest in the back yard or barn for the night. He tries the tavern, first, just to see, and barely keeps from wincing when the sounds of a lute being strummed drift from inside.

He freezes altogether when a very familiar voice starts singing.

It’s a song Geralt heard Jaskier composing, before the dragon hunt, and one that he’s only heard a few times since, as he usually bolts from the tavern to his room or the stables any time he hears another bard start playing it. “Her Sweet Kiss” is transparent, to anyone who knows Jaskier, and Geralt hates the reminder of all the ways he hurt Jaskier before that final straw. 

There’s something else, something _more_ in Jaskier’s voice that no other bard has ever performed this song with, and Geralt startles when Roach nips at his shoulder, catching the edge of his armor and tugging. “Go apologize,” she says - and unlike every other time she’s told him to do this, her voice is soft. “You’re never going to have a better chance.”

Geralt takes a deep breath, and finishes hitching Roach to the post outside. She lifts her head enough to lip at his hair after he grabs the pack, and he strokes her neck in a long, sweeping motion before he braces himself and steps inside the tavern. 

It’s the same as any other tavern; loud, reeking of sweat, booze, food, and traces of vomit, and too many people who go quiet and stare at him as he enters. Jaskier is in the corner, and Geralt can read the tension in his shoulders. He’s still performing, though; anyone who hadn’t spent - fuck, who hadn’t spent _twenty years_ with him, wouldn’t know the difference. Geralt hitches his bag over his shoulder, and makes his way to a corner table, where he can sit with his back to the wall and watch the crowd. When the serving girl comes over, he asks for an ale and a plate of whatever they have the most of and an apple if they have one, and she leaves to get it.

Jaskier finishes out his set - he’d been in the middle of one, apparently, when Geralt walks in - before he calls for a break. He spends some time wandering the room, talking with other patrons, and Geralt studies him as he eats. Jaskier looks… good. He moves as fluidly as ever, he laughs and jokes and flirts, but - there’s a stiffness to his movements, like he’s performing even now, every movement controlled and calculated. 

And then his shoulders square, and he turns, and looks right at Geralt - and Geralt’s heart never races, but damn if it doesn’t try when Jaskier meets his gaze. Determination is writ largest upon his expression, but there’s anxiety, too - enough to make Geralt’s throat stick when he tries to swallow.

Jaskier just _looks_ at him for a long moment, and Geralt has no idea what his expression is doing, but whatever it is must satisfy Jaskier, because not a minute later, he’s marching directly towards Geralt’s corner and settling himself into the chair across from him. Geralt drinks in the sight of Jaskier like a man starved, so intent on cataloguing the tiny differences since the last time they were together that he nearly misses Jaskier’s words. “I suppose you have a contract in the area?” His tone is stiff, and Geralt feels a flash of shame.

“Not yet,” he grunts, glancing down at his food and taking a deep breath. “I - Work’s been scarce. Don’t like Witchers around here.”

Jaskier hums, and he seems to be studying Geralt as intently as he was studying Jaskier a moment ago. “So you’re just passing through, then. Didn’t seek me out.” There’s bitterness, in his words and his scent, and Geralt’s heart clenches in his chest.

“No,” he admits, making himself look up and meet Jaskier’s gaze again, “but… I wanted to.”

“Why didn’t you?” It’s blunt in all the ways that Jaskier never really is, no embellishment, no flowery language, and Geralt winces.

“Because I was scared,” he says, speaking before he loses his nerve. “I thought - Why would you want to see me?” Geralt’s gaze falls again, and it’s only the thought of the tongue-lashing that Roach will give him if he pussies out and the fear that maybe he’ll never get the chance to see Jaskier again that makes him keep talking. “I. The more I thought, the more I realized how. Unfair, I was. To you. Twenty years, and I never even called you ‘friend.’”

“You didn’t,” Jaskier agrees, but his expression is thoughtful now as he studies Geralt. “Why?”

“Because if I.” Geralt swallows, tries again. “If I said how important you are. You’d leave. Get sick of me, or - or die. Leave either way. Thought if I pushed you away, never made you more, it wouldn’t hurt as much.”

“And how’d that work out for you, Geralt?”

Geralt flinches at the blunt question, but he looks up, meets Jaskier’s eye. “It fucking sucked. I missed you, and it was my fault you weren’t there, because I drove you away. I don’t - I won’t ask if you want to travel with me again, but. I am sorry. For those twenty years, and the mountaintop. It wasn’t a blessing, having you out of my life - and it never would have been.”

Jaskier looks at him for another long moment before he smiles, bright like the dawn. “Well, I think that’s the most words I’ve ever gotten out of you in one conversation, Geralt. Had to learn to fill the silence without me?”

Geralt smirks. “Not exactly,” he hums. “Got someone to introduce you to.”

Jaskier’s smile falters. “Oh?” he asks.

Geralt drops some coins on the table to pay for his meal, and pushes himself to his feet. “She’s just outside,” he says, giving Jaskier a small, uncertain smile of his own.

Something rolls through Jaskier’s scent that Geralt can’t quite place, but he takes a deep breath and nods, getting to his feet. “Lead the way,” he says, tone bright but still missing something.

Geralt grabs the apple from his tray and heads for the door, Jaskier falling into step beside him; the familiar sound of his footsteps eases something in Geralt, and he feels his shoulders loosening as he pushes the door open.

Roach’s head snaps up from where she’d been dozing, one leg cocked, as they approach, and when she catches sight of Jaskier, her ears perk, and she whickers, playing ‘dumb horse.’ Jaskier’s scent brightens, and he laughs, stepping around Geralt to reach for Roach, who lets him stroke a hand down her face, fingers toying with her forelock. 

“Come now, Geralt, you know that Roach and I are old friends,” he says, tossing Geralt a slightly-confused smile. “Who did you want to introduce me to?”

Geralt grins, tearing the apple in half. “Jaskier, meet the daughter of a perfectly normal, exceptionally smart mare - and one of the last unicorns in existence. Roach, you know Jaskier.”

Jaskier stares at Geralt in disbelief for a long moment - and then yelps when Roach huffs. “About fucking time you apologized. Gimme that apple.”

Geralt obliges, watching as Jaskier looks between them with wide eyes. “I - You - Um. Geralt. I’m fairly confident in the integrity of my memory, and the last time I saw Roach, she mostly definitely did _not_ speak.”

“She didn’t,” Geralt says, giving Roach the other half of the apple. “Until a few months later, when a witch accidentally triggered the latent telepathic ability.”

“She said he needed a conscience,” Roach says smugly, wiping her apple-spit on Geralt’s arm. “She was right.”

“And Roach has been insufferable ever since,” Geralt concludes. 

Jaskier shakes his head, a move borne more of disbelief than anything else. “‘Insufferable’?” he echoes. “Impossible, Roach is a lady.”

“She swears like a brothel mistress,” Geralt says bluntly. “And she slobbers all over me whenever she gets into a patch of clover.”

“Well, that’s just being a horse,” Jaskier says primly. He’s still looking at Roach with an awed expression. “I - Half- _unicorn,_ really?”

“Really,” Roach confirms. “Also how I’ve survived living with this idiot for thirty years. But you’d know about that, wouldn’t you, elf boy?”

Jaskier splutters, and Geralt reaches for him, alarmed. “ _How_ did you figure that out?” he demands. 

“You haven’t aged,” Roach says, tossing her head. “And you smell like an elf.”

Jaskier turns to Geralt, who shrugs. “I figured there was _something,_ ” he confesses. “But you’d tell me if you wanted me to know, or if it were relevant.”

Jaskier’s face runs through several expressions in quick succession, before he finally sighs heavily. “Well. That was easier than I thought - but the talking horse thing is going to throw me for a loop for a while.”

Geralt blinks, but is saved from having to speak by Roach. “So you’re coming with us, then?”

Jaskier nods, and then seems to remember himself, looking at Geralt almost shyly. “That is, if you’re okay with it?”

Geralt relaxes, and opens his mouth to reply - 

“He’s only been pining after you since he picked me up from the inn at the bottom of that damn mountain,” Roach snorts. “Like a colt who lost his favorite pasturemate.”

Geralt smacks her in the shoulder, not wincing when she bites him in the arm in retaliation. “I have _not._ ”

“You have. It’s sad. You’ve been crying while you - “

Jaskier looks delighted, and Geralt smacks Roach again without looking. “I have _not,_ ” he repeats, gruffly. “I’ve missed you, but - “

“Geralt,” Jaskier interrupts, expression softening and a little unreadable as he steps forward, reaching out to lay his hand against Geralt’s arm. “I missed you, too.”

Geralt smiles, opens his mouth - and then Roach snorts, and Geralt feels the straps of the stirrup knock into his back, the stirrup hitting his ass, as Roach swings her weight into him, knocking him forward. He stumbles, barely manages to catch Jaskier who’d taken a reflexive step back and tripped over a rock.

“Roach, what the - “

“Fucking kiss him already, moron.”

Jaskier’s eyes go wide, and Geralt freezes - but then Jaskier is grinning. “Yeah, _moron,_ ” he chirps. “Fucking kiss me already.”

Geralt growls, but his heart isn’t in it.

His heart _is_ in the kiss that follows.


End file.
